


A Delicious Honeymoon

by aspielurkadurp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathroom Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Honeymoon, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Oral Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-26 10:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14999081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspielurkadurp/pseuds/aspielurkadurp
Summary: Ron and Hermione embark on a passionate honeymoon to Madrid, and a heat wave demands that they wear as little as possible, a fact they take full advantage of. In spite of their typical squabbling, the young couple succeeds to last and thrive throughout the honeymoon, "making it work" for the greater good (and even greater sex!).





	1. Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This chapter's title was inspired by Ella Fitzgerald's "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered," an artist I enjoy listening to when writing smut...apparently. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Hermione gazed lazily out of the window of the train carriage, her arm resting against the windowsill as she allowed her husband to lavish her neck with soft, murmuring kisses. The setting sun slowly seeped into the carriage and lingered on Ron’s hair, the unexpected heat giving it a warm, delightful scent. Hermione closed her eyes and sighed at Ron’s touch, stroking his hair with her other hand and taking in his scent. Thankfully, that awful cologne he had doused himself in for the wedding had finally worn off, leaving only him. God, she loved his smell. Burying her face into his hair, she planted small, soft kisses on the top of his head, hands generously imbibing the heat radiating from his neck and face. 

In response Ron pulled her onto his lap and moved his kisses to her décolleté, secretly wishing her silky wedding dress was cut just a tad lower for even more delicious access. The feeling of her wrapped around him, taking him in with as much desperate need as he carried within his chest, made the stiff, formal wedding garments he forced himself into for ceremony’s sake much less comfortable. Thankfully, each passing minute drew them closer to the hotel in Madrid, their final destination for two whole weeks of blissful companionship and unrestrained midnight fucks. In the meantime, a little foreplay in the carriage would have to suffice.

Her need pulsing through her veins, Hermione briskly hiked up the skirts of her wedding gown and wrapped her legs around Ron’s waist. She pressed tightly against him, ensuring Ron could feel her growing wetness through her lacy bridal knickers. The skirts pooled around the two, engulfing their waists in an accidentally-discreet tent of white to hide the naughtiness of their embrace. “You’re going to be the fucking death of me before we even arrive, Hermione,” Ron growled, pulling her hips tightly against his with shaky hands. There was no way she couldn’t sense how hard he was, the way his Sunday-best strained to contain his growing excitement. 

Chuckling with an uncharacteristic wickedness, Hermione ground her hips oh-so-gently against him, whispering in his ear, “Careful, Weasley. Don’t get too vulgar around your new wife; she will be quite put out.” Languidly pressing her torso against him so that he was pinned to the backrest of the carriage bench, she kissed his earlobe, giving it a teasing pull with her teeth. Muttering even more vulgarities under his breath, Ron gradually became undone and smashed her mouth against his, forcing her tongue in a duel to the death as he mentally fought against the urge to rip the front of her dress open. Hermione proved to be a worthy opponent, pushing back with her own tongue and greedily biting his lower lip. Pure bliss, with just a touch of pain. Actually, less like a touch, more like a torrent.

“Blimey, I’m not a steak. Watch your teeth!” Ron pulled away with a slight yelp of pain, his lip bleeding profusely. Gasping slightly, Hermione turned a bright red and hastily pulled out his pocket handkerchief. As they worked in unison to stop the bleeding (more like spurting, as she had accidentally chomped down on a tiny vein), she apologized profusely, with Ron quick to note that the only time she seemed to be sorry was when her actions resulted in physical injury. This resulted in a spontaneous quarrel about the frequency of Hermione’s apologies and Ron’s ability to communicate his feelings “proactively, you know, and not like a bloody toddler,” drawing attention from nearby Muggle passengers who kindly sacrificed their handkerchiefs for the cause of Ron’s lower lip—and his marriage.

~

The newlyweds arrived at the hotel disgruntled but alive, Ron’s lip neatly (and discreetly) patched up and the blood completely removed by Hermione’s skillful magic. They huffed to the hotel room without speaking a word, the concierge ushering them quickly to their room as he sensed the steam pouring from his client’s ears. Closing the door behind them and adding a quick Muffliato for good measure, Hermione whirled on her heel to face him, her brown eyes flashing dangerously.

“Accidents happen, you know,” she spat. “You don’t need to bring up the entire past just because you’re a baby when it comes to pain.” She sulked over to the small table near their bed, beautifully-detailed with a mosaic on top, and sat on it. Her shoulders hunched in contempt, and the straps of her gown slid carelessly, revealing a beautiful pair of shoulders Ron couldn’t even begin to comprehend in his most detailed fantasies.

“A baby??” Ron shot back, hurriedly pulling off his rumpled wedding robes and unbuttoning the top of his sweat-stained dress shirt. They had the luck of honeymooning in a city currently smothered by a magnificent heat wave, and the sheer stickiness inflamed his already fraught nerves. “You practically destroyed my lip! I could have been permanently maimed!”

“Oh, well forgive me for wanting you so badly I decided to fool around a bit. God forbid I make an effort to show you how badly I want you to make love to me when you kiss me like that. Excuse me for wanting to be a little daring for once!” She shouted suddenly from her corner, hands tightly gripping the table’s edge. Her cheeks betrayed the same shade of red they bore the first time Ron had touched her, when a New Year’s Day party at the Weasley’s had led to an unexpected (yet far from unwanted) climax in a broom closet. Her chest heaved with the same passion as their first tumble in the dark, with which she surprised him in equal measure by initiating herself. Even in her anger, every inch of Hermione was inflamed with need for Ron. The fierceness in her eyes, the way she paused frequently to gasp for air, how quickly she became undone—as hard as he tried, Ron never ceased to witness the return of a familiar sensation within his trousers whenever she lost her temper at him.

Ron approached her as she continued to shout at him, all anger and memory of whatever the hell they were arguing about at the sight of her flushed face and bare shoulders. She continued railing against him until, face-to-face with her, he gently slid his hands down her arms, releasing them from the table and into his own. He gazed at her lovingly, stroking her palms with his thumb. Dumb struck by his sudden change in posture, Hermione’s accusations trailed off in bewilderment. Her breath began to even out, and the fire in her eyes dissipated as she returned his gaze. Sighing with a hint of exasperation left, Hermione whispered, “How are we going to make this work, Ron? We can’t even have a nice honeymoon night without going at each other’s throats.” She swallowed hard, tears welling up in her eyes.

“It’s just another fight, that’s all, Hermione,” Ron assured, squeezing her hands. As tender as his current mood was, the sight of soft light reflecting on the soft skin of Hermione’s shoulders made him feel slightly drunk. Smiling, he gently kissed the tears away from her face, allowing his lips to linger softly near her cheek. Hermione leaned into the embrace, curling her hands up against his chest as he nuzzled her tear-stained face. They lingered for several moments, gentleness being rare in both their anger and lust-fueled interactions. 

Finally relaxed, Hermione looked up at Ron and kissed him sweetly, allowing the tip of her tongue to play over his lips between kisses. After enjoying each other’s taste for a brief moment, Ron held up her chin, a question in his eyes. She nodded, the last of her anger gone and her need returned. Turning her around, Ron unzipped her gown patiently, allowing his eyes to witness the slow cascade of fabric to the ground. Her lacy knickers followed; they proved to be the most difficult garment to remove, clinging to her legs as their wetness betrayed the depths of Hermione’s need. The lurching within his trousers was growing unbearable as he took her in, slowly growing more intoxicated by the sheer light radiating from her. Sensing his mental incoherence, Hermione turned around and smiled mischievously, guiding his hips towards hers as she backed into the table. Surprised by her actions, Ron raised his eyebrows. “Here?”

Grinning wide with an irreverence he rarely had the privilege of witnessing, Hermione deftly unbuttoned his pants and slid down his trousers with her feet, playfully nipping at the erect nipples struggling to escape his austere dress shirt. Grabbing his poor throbbing cock with a distinct lack of gentleness (the noise he emitted upon her doing so would be something she would never live down), she spread her legs as she pulled Ron towards her, guiding him into her as she sat. “Here.” 

Even Muffliato could not mask the frenzied screams and confounding thumps on the walls that followed deep into the night as Ron and Hermione took each other. A few annoyed (and perhaps even impressed) neighbors even knocked loudly on their hotel door, their exasperated expletives masked by the ecstatic ones of the young couple. It was not until the sky began to glow with a grey sheen near the horizon, lighting the room dimly, that Hermione finally collapsed upon the table, allowing Ron to stumble with her limp, sated frame into the welcoming, soft sheets of the marriage bed.


	2. Hand to Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron takes Hermione to church...with his tongue. There's a little scene on a balcony, too. You'll need Jesus after reading this; it's too late for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is a bit longer and a lot less vanilla than the last one; shameless smut ahead! I hope you are enjoying this series so far, and I promise that not every chapter will be back-to-back sex scenes. But hey, they are a helluva lot of fun to write!

Ron was snoring the moment his head hit the pillow, but the early gray light of dawn found Hermione awake and restless. Although the previous evening was sweltering, the cool morning air lapped gently at her skin, teasing her nipples into their previously vigilant glory and beckoning her to the balcony. Stretching her lithe frame, Hermione yawned and slid from the sedating comforts of the bedsheets, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty next to her. She gazed at him lovingly as she slipped a robe over her shoulders. Ron’s arms were splayed magnificently across the pillows, his long eyelashes fluttering in his flight to dreamland. His soft lips were parted slightly, giving him the air of a gracefully comatose princess waiting to be wakened by true love’s kiss. There was a strangely feminine beauty to his frame, a tenderness to his face that invited a gentle kiss from his new wife on his pale cheek. His freckle-dusted nose twitched slightly, but he didn’t wake.

Hermione stood and walked over to the delicate French doors gracing their hotel room, opening onto a quiet balcony graced with Morocco-styled railings. The balcony was low enough to witness the courting rituals of street pigeons on the narrow streets of Madrid, but high enough to offer privacy to a half-naked, casual observer of said rituals. The streets were delightfully empty in the early morning light, and Hermione felt perfectly at ease watching the sun rise clad only in a thin, lacy robe. A chilly breeze began to blow, lavishing her neck with kisses that reminded her of the night before. A shiver having nothing to do with the cold raced down her spine to a well-used spot between her thighs, and she released a ragged breath at the return of the familiar sensation. 

The breeze was his hands stroking her into a state of dissociative bliss. The coarse texture of the wood beneath her feet was his solid body, helpless to her own touches. She closed her eyes as she leaned into the balcony’s railing, feeling one particularly curved rail tease her slit. How could one person drive her to experience every mundane sensation as a reminder of his caresses? Without thinking, she allowed the robe to open slightly, and leaned into the bar. The shock of the cold, firm metal against her folds made her gasp slightly; it was a good sort of shock, like the firmness of Ron’s cock always took her by surprise when they first became intimate. Biting her lip, she began to grind against the railing. Silvery webs of slick wetness began to form on the bar, glinting as the first rays of the sun teased the balcony. 

Hermione continued her unplanned ministrations on the railing, moaning softly, lost to the cold and the heat and the light, until a sudden sharp whistle yanked her quickly out of her reverie. Spinning around violently, she squeaked and quickly wrapped her robe tightly around her, face crimson with embarrassment and rage. The next-door neighbor had also decided to enjoy an early-morning moment on his balcony, and he was now wiggling his eyebrows and making obscene humping motions in Hermione’s direction. Cursing under her breath, Hermione stormed back inside the hotel room, hastily closing and locking the doors behind her and slamming the curtains shut for good measure. Sinking into the small armchair near the table (where last night’s memories returned so vividly to her), she huffed and stretched her feet out on the small ottoman in front of it. She wished desperately to march next door and give that bloody pervert a piece of her mind, but deep inside she knew that a lecture would not save him from his voyeuristic machinations on future women. She was safe now, and that was all that mattered.

In spite of her interruption, the slickness on Hermione’s thighs persisted, and she slowly returned to her previous activities, confident that she was now fully out-of-sight. Lazily she kissed her folds with the tips of her fingers, careful not to graze the clitoris as to tease out her desire. After all, whenever Ron was in her line of vision, it took very little goading for her to become undone quickly. The cold balcony and an image of Ron’s throbbing desire returning to her mind’s eye, she gave herself over to her knowledgeable strokes and pulls, erasing the memory of a sly neighbor ruining her morning. The scrape of her nails against her lips, the clever way in which her index finger would occasionally dart to even more perfect places—she was well-versed in the art of self-satisfaction.

A stir from the bed alerted her to Ron, but she continued. Wouldn’t it be a lovely surprise for her husband, upon awakening, to come upon his wife loving herself to the thought of him loving her? Sure enough, after a moment of grogginess, Ron was quick to notice Hermione’s soft moans and undulations in the armchair.

“Morning,” she slurred lustfully, maintaining unflinching eye contact with her beloved as she continued her strokes. If it weren’t from the shamelessly public display of self-affection and the wicked flush on her collarbone, he might have thought she was enjoying a quiet morning of Spanish coffee and the funny pages.

“Morning,” he returned weakly, transfixed by the sight of his wife’s wet lips, swollen with blood and tangibly radiating heat in spite of the significant distance between the bed and the armchair. Wetness graced her fingers and thighs, graced her holy mouth as she casually licked excess fluid from her fingers, graced the tip of his engorged cock as it strained to be completely swallowed. Gasping for air, Ron approached her cautiously, his eyes still centered on her ruby-red pussy pulsating with need.

Chuckling throatily, Hermione beckoned him towards her, licking her lips hungrily at the sight of his crimson member glistening with precum. As Ron sat on the small ottoman in front of her, unsure of how to proceed or even of his own name, she took him daintily between her palms, running them across his shaft as she gave the tip a sweet little kiss. Being the wicked witch that she was, she added the tiniest of licks to her kiss, watching him through low-lidded eyes as she did so.

Ron wasn’t having any of it.

Unceremoniously placing her hands away from his cock to the arms of the chair, he slid in closer. “Me first, my love. I’m a hungry boy, I get the first taste,” he asserted, grinning diabolically up at her. 

Rolling her eyes at his corny attempt to talk dirty, Hermione pouted. “I always thought it was ladies first, you greedy chauvinist,” she jabbed playfully, pinching his tip to show her disapproval.

Wincing slightly, Ron shook his head. “I insist, I simply must go first. In the name of equality, you know.” He winked and began to lavish her long-neglected breasts with burning kisses, paying extra attention to her alert nipples and the soft underside of her mounds. Beneath the breasts he particularly indulged her, with long, sonorous licks trailing a path to her sternum and down the length of her stomach. He then lingered for a while at her navel, nipping the skin around and beneath it. Hermione whined in clear disapproval of this unfair teasing, using the hand that wasn’t clutching the edge of the armchair to forcefully push his head lower.

“Patience, Your Highness,” Ron scolded, returning once again to the worship of her taut and heaving breasts. The sight of her flushed, slick, and deeply annoyed made his own sex yearn for attention, pulsing in protest of being neglected. However, Ron was too focused on the task at hand: driving his wife to the brink of insanity, as he had thousands of times before with both his unquenchable libido and his ego. Hermione put up as fierce of a retort in her pleasure as she did in her anger at him, filthy words rolling off her tongue like sweets as she continued to tug at Ron’s hair.

This little power struggle continued for some time before Ron finally relented, trailing his lips down her pelvis into her throbbing and desperate pussy. Clenching and unclenching fiercely at the sudden attention, it took on a life of its own in response to Ron’s attention. Crying out, Hermione’s hips spasmed and thrust against her husband’s mouth, both hands now firmly grasping the arms of the chair. Smiling as he felt every inch of his wife’s pleasure surge through her like a deviated electric current, Ron greedily partook, lapping at her folds with wide strokes before honing in on the small bundle of nerves certain to make her take the Lord’s name in vain.

But first, a little bit of fun before the wife becomes undone.

Tugging carelessly on her clitoris with his teeth, Ron proceeded to lash his tongue in and out of her, worshipping her gorgeous, rosy fountain with a tongue-fucking so unrestrained that she nearly broke his nose with the wild bucking of her hips. Screaming and yanking viciously at his hair, she blasphemed every god that came to mind, not stopping at the Holy Trinity. Putting his hands to good use, he balanced her frame against his face with his left hand and furthered his profane mission with his right, using his thumb to end the miserable teasing of her clitoris.

Shuddering to a complete halt, Hermione was suddenly at a loss for words. Her whole body trembled, shock waves coursing through it as she couldn’t even emit more than a weak gasp. Cum gushed out from her at a rate that seemed nigh impossible by ordinary human standards, soaking thoroughly the coarse hair gracing her sex and dribbling down Ron’s lips and chin. As she sank downward into the chair, beyond the point of satiation to buttery bliss too wonderful for the mystics to capture in their most radiant visions, her drenched lower half slipped from Ron’s mouth down his neck and chest. 

A delicious trail of orgasmic wine was left behind, glistening in the morning sun and coating the young couple thoroughly. Falling gracelessly from the ottoman to the floor, tangled up in Hermione, Ron for a moment forgot his throbbing member, forgot about the neck strain caused by his eager ministrations, forgot about the dustiness of the floor, forgot his own sense of self as the bare skin separating himself from his beloved seemed to dissipate. Only the lovely juices smeared on their bodies, the involuntary sighs floating from Hermione’s chest, the way her skin glowed with an inner light as he gently kissed her back to awareness, truly mattered. 

As Hermione’s senses slowly returned to her, she smiled with abandon. Her lips were soft with the love bestowed so willingly upon them and polished brightly by the profanities that spewed from them earlier. She lay back on one arm, watching Ron clean her up manually with his tongue and fingers, trailing silvery strands of her cum into his mouth. He was addicted to her taste, and exactly the sort of drunkard she would love to spend the rest of her life with.

“Ron,” she whispered faintly, eyes glistening with a tranquil, sedated bliss.

“Yes, my darling?” He crooned back, licking the tips of his fingers sous-chef-styled before looking at her.

“Kiss me.”

Smiling tenderly at the sight of his wife’s sheer, unfettered happiness, he leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her lips, surprisingly chaste compared to the frenzied lust which took place earlier. They lingered there for several moments, lips softly pressed, no need for escalation this time to enjoy each other. The risen sun, at first basking them with a tender warmth, soon began to seethe through the curtains unforgivingly, reminding them of another scorching day ahead. They finally broke apart and, descending immediately to an earthier state of being, began to clean up the disordered room about them, making the bed, de-ruffling the disheveled armchair, and briskly showering off the sacred filth of their courting rituals. 

Squeaky clean and neatly shaved, Ron pulled on a light cotton T-shirt and glanced at Hermione, pointing towards the door. “So…up for a light breakfast and tea?”


	3. Bruja

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the sweethearts prepare to face the hot yet exciting day ahead, Hermione has an unpleasant encounter with Creepy Balcony Guy. Thankfully, she's Hermione Motherfucking Granger, and there is nothing she can't handle!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for waiting patiently for the next chapter! I took the weekend and Monday off to spend time with some good friends and work on another fic soon to be posted: a Game of Thrones one-shot! This chapter will be shorter and more plotty than the last two have been, as Creepy Balcony Guy still needs to be dealt with. And come on, Ron and Hermione didn't go to Spain just to stay in their room and fuck for two weeks straight; there's cool stuff to explore in Madrid!

Within half an hour, the young couple was dressed, clean, and seated in the sunlit dining room of the hotel. Munching on a generous plate of grapes and strawberries, Ron and Hermione scanned a lengthy stack of tourism brochures, taking in the quiet buzz around them. Muted conversations in a multitude of languages adorned the room. A nigh-intoxicating sizzle arose from the hot plates at the front of the breakfast line, and the air basked in a fine aroma of grilled potatoes, fresh fruits, and sweet wines. The scent, overwhelming at times, was nowhere near comparable to the gentle waft of Hermione’s perfume grazing Ron’s nostrils, which he relished in when not distracted by the plethora of sites his wife was going on about.

“Isn’t the Moorish architecture on this old church grand, Ron? It’s not too far from the central plaza, either, so the walk won’t be too bad…” Hermione continued to chirp excitedly about each destination, circling hot spots with a red pen. Naturally, she knew more about each and every major destination in Madrid than their guides did, and she eagerly explained the rich and complex history of 15th-century Spain as she combed the brochures. Ron sat back in his seat with a smile, watching his intelligent and gorgeous wife rant about how superficial the tourist-friendly explanations for each destination her. Her eyes, already glowing in the sunlight streaming through the room, came alive more and more as she unveiled a new and exciting fact about pre-Renaissance Spanish history every two minutes.

Finally sensing she was beginning to go off-track, Ron leaned in and kissed her softly to quiet her. “Darling, I love watching you talk the way you do about where we’re going to visit, but if we’re going to actually witness any of it we should get going soon.”

Hermione nodded, squeezing Ron’s hand as she returned his kiss. “I need to use the loo first. Stay here, and let me know if you see any other sites in there that grab your attention.” She stood up and made her way over to the washroom, dress swishing playfully as she walked. On the other side of the dining room, a man who had been watching her for the past several minutes also arose and went in her direction, which neither Ron nor Hermione observed.

When she exited the washroom a moment later, the man, who had been hovering outside the door nonchalantly, suddenly grabbed her arm. His eyes glinted malevolently, lips curling with an unexpected perversity that sent a shudder down Hermione’s spine. Leaning close to her ear, he purred, “Care for another private show? I’m quite a lonely man, you see, and a lovely girl like you is too much to resist.”

Eyes widening in shock and anger, Hermione suddenly realized that he was the same man who had been spying on her when she was on the balcony. As he leered at her realization, she began to tremble, desperately scanning the room for help. Ron was on the other side of the room, stuffing himself with the third fruit parfait he’d had this morning. The other guests were occupied with newspapers and their own private conversations. She could shout for security. However, the nearest guard was far across the dining hall on the other side, and she calculated that in the moment between the time that she screamed and when he was able to arrive, this man could easily dash away with her…or even kill her. Hermione was on her own. 

Throwing caution to the wind in a desperate need for safety, Hermione quickly looked around to make sure that they were alone, then whipped out her wand quickly with her free hand, pointing the tip straight at his throat. She met the unwelcomed lust in his eyes with a fierce, dangerous glint of her own. Even if the Muggle world could not understand her true power, she was still Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, and not to be fucked with. 

“I will give you three seconds to let go of me, walk away, and never presume to approach, speak to, or even look at me ever again, before I hex you, you pathetic creep.” For good measure she pressed the wand tip even harder against his throat, putting enough pressure on his Adam’s apple to show that she was as far from joking as can be. Much to her relief, the man’s grip immediately slackened, and he backed away with his hands up. His eyes were filled with an intense fear that surprised even her, and he murmured under his breath, “Bruja!”* before darting off quickly. As she came out from the enclave near the washroom to double-check, she saw him firmly planted in his seat, nose buried in a newspaper. She quickly put her wand away and nearly collapsed against a wall with relief. That disgusting excuse of a man was never going to bother her again.

When she finally returned to the table, Ron quickly glanced up and raised his eyes at her. “Everything alright, ‘Mione?” Looking down, Hermione noticed that her hands were still shaking slightly. Sliding them into the thin pockets of her dress, she nodded and smiled, hoping that the pallor of fear still hovering in her cheeks wasn’t too noticeable. “Everything’s fine, my love. Just a bit of…indigestion.” 

Nodding sympathetically, Ron handed her a small mint from a dish in the center of the table. “Here, this should help.” She took it gratefully, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before popping it between her lips. Even in the lie, her stomach was still in knots after the terrifying encounter, and any sort of soothing gesture would do. “I’m quite ready to head off when you are,” she piped, forcing a small smile.

“As am I,” Ron responded, standing up and gracelessly shoving the countless brochures into his pockets. Taking his arm, they left the sunlit ambiance of the dining hall to confront the insufferable heat outside. Thank goodness the antiquated Renaissance church Hermione was eager to visit first was only a block away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bruja is Spanish for “witch.”


	4. Dripping Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not every marriage is a walk in the park, but today this one was, with an unfortunate bout of heatstroke and a swell of spiritual ecstasy to boot. Long story short? Park sex!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The muses paid a nice little visit with this one, so you guys get a bonus chapter! I took a few creative risks with this one, so I hope this one's not too intense or artsy-fartsy for y'all. Three chapters left until the end of the honeymoon!

Within moments of stepping outside Hermione was beginning to regret today’s wardrobe choices. The white cotton dress with dainty yellow sunflowers that she was wearing, although lightweight and airy, became heavy and damp in the thick heat. Sweat dribbled down her neck and legs, causing the dress to cling tightly to her skin. The friction of the dress was uncomfortable, and the way it clung tightly to her made her slightly self-conscious. Thankfully, they were in Europe, where women often walked around skyclad from the waist up at beaches, and no one paid her any mind. Ron, on the other hand, took her in fully, admiring the way her soft curves were enhanced. 

Once in a while the equally-hot breeze swept rudely by, and the scent of her perfume mixed with her sweat would reach him. He never tired of the way she smelled, whether adorned by flowery, artificial potions or by her own natural aroma. Some men found the thought of women sweating disgusting. But for him, Hermione’s glistening skin combined with the odor of her sweet-smelling hair with a touch of leftover sex made it impossible to find anything about her repulsive.

Eventually, the couple reached the old church. Sighing with relief, Hermione impatiently tugged Ron’s arm, leading him inside to blissful shade. The church was large, dark, and quiet, with only a few tourists huddled about. Compared to the Haga Sophia in Istanbul or St. Basil’s Cathedral in Russia, this hidden jewel of Madrid was relatively unknown. Ordinary on the outside with only a touch of guilding, the great belly of the church revealed dizzying and incomprehensible geometric patterns indicating the influence of Moorish rule in medieval Spain. Hermione gazed up at the patterns in wonder, clutching Ron’s arm excitedly like a small child at an amusement park. Any preplanned facts she planned to spew on the history of the church evaporated from her lips, and they simply took in the grandeur. 

Tiny snapping from cameras and mobiles around them were the only indicators of others present. Lost in the majesty of the patterns and the colors and the sacred atmosphere, Ron and Hermione were fixed firmly to the center of the cathedral. In their minds, were the only devotees in the world, not to the Christian god for whom the church was built, or the Muslim one dedicated later on. Instead, the swirl of colors twirling about with the heavy scent of sex and sweat and dust animated their ecstasy. The bliss of art and each other coated their tongues thickly, leaving them speechless and cemented in each other’s arms. 

When the doors of the old church creaked open as tourists began to trickle out, the lovers finally returned to Earth, cradled in a soft embrace in the center of a musty, obscure cathedral in the historical district of Madrid. Struggling for a moment to find air after the unexpected moment of transcendence, Hermione finally gasped out, “We should move on. The morning’s growing late.”

Ron nodded, equally tongue-tied, the colors still buzzing about in his mind. They stepped carefully out of the cathedral into the garish sun, groaning as the heat that they escaped for a precious hour re-assaulted them. As he redirected his eyes towards his wife, the radiance Ron had been imbibing all morning suddenly seemed more dazzling. Her coquettish scent grew more powerful in his nostrils, and the slight touch of her arm against his sent an intense shock through his entire system. Ron had no bloody clue how a church could suddenly transform his wife into a being to be worshipped, but it was far from him to question seemingly divine forces he could never understand.

~

The bulging heat of the morning continued to heave, finally climaxing into the scorcher of noontime. Sweating, grumpy, and slightly dehydrated, Ron and Hermione crawled from destination to destination at a much slower pace than planned. Unfortunately, many of the sites they planned to see following the church were all outdoors, severely testing their patience. By 12:30, Ron had a splintering headache that was growing worse by the minute, causing small black spots to crowd his field of vision. Concerned that he was developing a migraine, Hermione was finally able to convince him to stop being stubborn for “at least five goddamn minutes and drink some water” after he nearly fainted against a lamppost. Thankfully, an off-duty nurse was nearby, and he kindly escorted the couple to a small café. As the waitress hurriedly brought a iced swing-top bottle of water, the nurse examined Ron and determined—much to Hermione’s relief—that the headache and vision spots were merely a result of mild heatstroke and not a migraine. To keep him from collapsing, he urged her to find a cool and restful place for Ron to recover, preferably indoors or in an area with plenty of shade. He also brought them another ice-cold bottle to dampen Ron’s clothes with. “It will help…ah, how do you say it again in English? Make his skin go down, not be so hot,” he explained, smiling encouragingly. 

Hermione nodded and requested for a small, private corner in the café for Ron to sit. Once the waitress led them there, adding a cushion behind his back for extra comfort, she thanked both the nurse and the waitress profusely, offering them both several euros for their trouble. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, hermocita,” the waitress said kindly, patting Hermione’s cheek. The nurse agreed, adding in jest that their Britishness probably made them more susceptible to continental summer ailments anyway before bidding them adieu.

Particularly Ron, Hermione added mentally. You pasty gingers practically crisp in this bleeding heat. She administered small sips of water to her husband over the next hour, snipping at him impatiently whenever he whined about being so thirsty. “If you actually tried to pay attention to how hot the day was and drink up before we left, I wouldn’t have to worry about you dying on me.”

“I did drink up,” he protested, opening his tired eyes somehow still twinkling with mischief. “Just from a very different source of refreshing fluids.” This earned him a slap on the arm so resounding that the café patrons looked at them with bewilderment. Hermione’s face was beet-red and furiously twisted, but the small smirk Ron caught before a wave of nausea overcame him betrayed her titillation. Mission accomplished.

~

At last, Ron’s strength returned enough to where he was able to stand up without feeling the need to unload the three parfaits he ate for breakfast at Hermione’s feet. Covertly slipping the water-running waitress a generous note, she carefully led her husband out of the cool café back into the insufferable sun. This time, Ron was able to handle the heat, his shirt damp with the ice-cold water Hermione had doused him with repeatedly to lower his body temperature. The convection-oven wind was drying the shirt quickly, but for now he was sufficiently rested. Gently shoving Hermione off of him, he mumbled, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine now. Where to next?” 

Their eyes scanned the cramped street, looking for a relaxed area not swarming with obnoxious (and mostly American) tourists. Thankfully, a small park nearby promised quiet, shade, and even an unexpected amount of privacy, graced with burly bushes and wide-limbed trees. The couple eagerly raced over to the park, relieved to be once again out of the unrelenting sun. 

Wishing to stretch his legs after sitting on a hard wooden café floor for over an hour, Ron suggested a mellow stroll throughout the park, to which his wife cheerfully acquiesced. Although she was more of a museum junkie than an outdoorsy type, Hermione was grateful to take in the fresh air and not breathe in yet another stuffy cathedral or art exhibit. Arm in arm they admired the lovely scenery of growing trees and resting people, of children at play and young couples smoking quietly near trees, pulling away from their cigarettes once in a while to lock tongues or playfully pinch each other. There was even a man clad in a thin robe meditating in the park, cross-legged on a thin woven mat. A cluster of rowdy children would occasionally gather around this man, oohing and ahhing at his “exotic” robes or babbling excitedly in Spanish amongst each other. A neglected guitar lay in a bush farther down the path they walked, belonging to a heavyset man furiously scribbling in a notebook. Behind one tree were two men in their late twenties, having their own private moment against the back of the oak (“Ron, it’s not polite to stare! They’re young and in love, just like us.”).

Pulling her gawking husband away from the sight of lovers, dripping with sweat and their sweet releases, Hermione led Ron off the path to a thick enclave of bushes, far from the crowds and couples into a shaded, earthy haven. Ron leapt over the bushes into the circle with ease, but Hermione’s dress caught on a few disobedient branches, prompting a string of curses as she attempted to free herself. Chuckling gently, her husband aided her, snapping off the ends of the twigs to help her detach herself. Huffing in relief, Hermione smiled at him gratefully, then looked around at their surroundings. The incidental spot couldn’t have been more perfect for stolen hours. Not only was it well-shaded and far from the center of the park, but the density of the bushes guaranteed both privacy and a bit of soundproofing. The ground beneath was less grassy here, instead replaced by thick, dark earth studded with moss and the occasional mushroom. Flushed with heat and the promise of a spontaneous moment alone, Hermione turned to Ron, grinning. “What do you think? This seems to be a nice, quiet place for a few hours alone, perhaps for a nap.”

In reply Ron bent down to run his fingertips across the soil. It was wet and deliciously cool to the touch, promising a soft bed with the layers of additional moss. Sighing, he slowly stretched out onto it, resting his head in his palms as he gazed up at his wife. “It’s perfect, Hermione. Not to mention less heatstroke-y.” She giggled and stretched out next to him, propping herself up with the crook of her arm. “Well, darling, I’m glad you think I have good taste in hiding spots,” she purred, massaging Ron’s chest still damp with sweat. She then curled up next to him, laying her head on his shoulder as she fully rested her body into the sweet earth. Her hand slid under his shirt tenderly, stroking his chest and taking in the slow undulations of his breathing with her fingers. Ron pulled her close to him until their bodies were flush, sliding his legs apart slightly so Hermione could rest one of her own between his knees. He tangled his hand into her hair, growing drunker by the second with the combined scent of her and the earth.

The damp green and the divine feminine and the dripping heat from her neck bathed his senses, and he didn’t want to miss a single drop. He pressed her face into his neck, and she nuzzled it eagerly, sliding her lips against his skin. He smelled equally delicious, and felt cool against her kisses compared to the sickly heat that oppressed him earlier. She allowed the tip of her tongue to take him in as well, the leftover sweat reminding her of the way he would taste when releasing into her mouth. Those nights were few and far between compared to the astonishing diversity of other amorous activities they often partook in, but that was by Ron’s request, as their first experimentation with oral left an inexperienced and slightly confused Hermione to accidentally scar her lover down there. Ever since that fateful night, when she was forced to muffle his screams with her pillow as not to wake the entire Weasley household, they both agreed to save fellatio for special occasions, and preferably not right after arguments when her bite was unexpectedly worse than her bark. 

Hermione groaned inwardly remembering that night; she had been so mortified and tearful that Ron was left trying to console her in spite of his intense agony. However, all negative memories drifted from her mind into the breeze as she added little sucks and (careful) nibbles to the kisses on his neck. She greedily dragged her tongue down his neck to trace a path across his collarbone and up the front of his throat, straddling him as she reached his lips. Ron’s own tongue flicked out to meet her own, playfully toying with it before diving into a deep, intense kiss that elicited a deep moan from them both. It was the sort of kiss that required nothing less than the whole body to fully engage. Hermione pressed eagerly against him, moaning into Ron’s mouth as she moved against him. She broke away from the kiss briefly, gasping for air, to hastily unbuckle his jeans. His cock, throbbing and red and desperate to be taken, was pulled like a magnet to her flesh, but she was not ready to satisfy it yet. 

Returning to pressing her tongue desperately against his, hips resting against his stomach to avoid making him finish too quickly, she guided her hands to the straps of her dress. Mind rendered useless with his sheer need for her skin, Ron slid her dress down hastily, struggling with the tightness of the bust against her swelling breasts. His efforts were rewarded with a soft pop as they finally emerged from the dress, and she quickly slid it off her waist along with her drenched knickers. Ron’s head thumped against the ground as he gazed enraptured at her breasts, fighting the urge to become completely undone as he took a nipple into his mouth. Hermione panted desperately, arching her back at the wave of pleasure flooding her bosom. He eagerly obliged her soft whines and incoherent pleas with a light pull of his teeth, making good use of his tongue as he alternated between nipping and licking. Hermione swore as she thrashed against him, quickly pulling his shirt off as his stomach grew drenched with her need. Drops of sweat were trailing down from her hair, adding to the taste of her already-sweet skin and increasing his thirst for her. Growling fiercely, he slip her hips down to his alert and waiting cock, desperate to be undone by her taut and ready flesh. 

Before sliding on to him, Hermione firmly planted her palms on his chest and stared fiercely at him. Strands of her disheveled hair hung down, gracing his cheeks. Voice low and deadly serious, she murmured, “Ronald Weasley, I love you. I love every inch of you, your taste and your skin. I love the way you want me, and the way you push against me. I love your thick-headedness and utter stupidity and your glorious temper.” Her chest heaved desperately as she slid onto his cock with finality, continuing her declarations even as she rode him with abandon. “I want to devour you and be devoured by you. I want to claim you and to be claimed by you. I want to sink into your bones and float above you. I want to share every scar and every moment of beauty with you, all pain and pleasure, until we fade…” Her words trailed off as she began speaking in tongues, her plateau rendering even her gorgeous poetry unfathomable. Ron’s own mind was long gone, lips parted wordlessly as the same sacred sensations that encapsulated them in the cathedral and in the bedroom swallowed him completely.

Earth and fruit and sex and the blinding flashes of light and the squelching of soaked bodies meeting consumed them for several ecstatic moments, as Hermione’s cries and the previously unknown songs of worship lolling off Ron’s lips careened about the bushes. Their unified chorus arose to the heavens as they climaxed powerfully, the soil rising and falling to meet their floating frames. When the bushes around them finally stopped spinning, and the spurting fountains from their combined forms trickled to a slow stream into the earth, nourishing the moss, the couple unified forever by the scent and taste and touch of each other’s skin collapsed into each other’s frames. A deep slumber followed, and the nearby sparrows guarded them carefully, pecking at small drops of leftover cum as they kept watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, I hope the imagery wasn't too strange for y'all. I'm an autistic poet who listens to a lot of Bjork for fun, so overwhelming sensory input is my normal mode in my writing :P


	5. Tickled Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-awaited book and a mild hangover give Ron and Hermione to have the unexpected: a quiet, mundane morning with little excitement. Well, sort of.

Several days later, Ron was awakened to a familiar and now affectionate sound: quiet pages flipping. Hermione was sitting upright in their bed, brow furrowed, absorbed in an aged book bought from a charity shop in a village near Madrid. It had taken several stops to different shops before they threw up their hands and traveled out of town to find an English copy of The Nature Notes of an Edwardian Lady. She had been hellbent on finding the book since developing an obsession with a strange Muggle show about stuffy people in big houses and fancy dresses on the telly in their room (“Downtown something or other,” Ron would recall when attempting to describe it to Harry in his letters). At last, the beast had been fed, and Hermione was now able to fully relax with a cup of café con leche and some pretentious literature.

Ron watched her, smitten. The way her lips would silently, reverently mouth each word made him want to toss away that damn book and snog her senselessly against the pillows. The flowers on the cover, in his mind’s eye, were meant to be ripped out of their paper restraints and dotted in her hair, he thought, strands of which would snake up and down the pillow as they would make equally senseless love. The scent of sweat and lilacs, the sound of Hermione’s gentle cries, all dashed about wildly in his mind as he watched his lovely wife read. 

Instead, he chose restraint, leaning over to brush his lips gently on her bare shoulder. “Enjoying that book so far?”

She nodded curtly, still transfixed. Wild bacchanal rites would have to wait; in the present, she was in her zone. 

Furtively, Ron leaned over to sneak a sip of her coffee, hoping to ward off a mild hangover from last night’s carousing with a bottle of sherry. Without missing a beat or diverting her eyes from the page Hermione immediately swatted his hand away.

“Get your own. The room service menu’s right there.”

Grumbling in protest, he took the menu and scanned it, tongue still thick. How the hell was Hermione not utterly depleted? Both of them had polished off a bottle and a half collectively. A decorative vase somehow got broken. Ron was ninety percent sure the sticky film on the sink faucet was from him (did she get him off on a sink? In it? TO IT??). Yet here she was, poised and quiet and reading, hair a bit tousled but no signs of a hangover in sight. Shrugging off the mystery, he ordered a coffee for himself, hoping the slow throbbing in his head would abate.

As he waited for the coffee to arrive, Ron curled up among the blankets and gently rested his head on his darling wife’s lap. A smile was hidden within the pages of the books as she obliged him, stroking his red hair gently. 

“Your fingers are bloody magic, ‘Mione,” Ron purred, closing his eyes to savor the touch.

She gave his cheek a little slap. “Naughty! Get your mind out of the hinkypunk lair!”

“You were the one who ‘went there,’ not me,” he protested, rubbing his cheek. “Although now that you mention it, they’re pretty bloody great in that regard too.” As he readjusted his head on her lap, he slid his hand under the blankets and let his fingertips graze the length of Hermione’s thigh. When she didn’t pull away, Ron slid his hand in further, his thumb oh-so-gently skimming the edge of her lips.

Hermione released a slow, ragged breath, a flush gently growing on her cheeks. Ron pulled back a bit of the blanket, revealing a fresh inch of soft thigh that he planted gentle kisses on. In response to his affections she gripped her husband’s wrist and gently pushed it upward, a clear sign of encouragement. But before Ron could continue tease her into absolute madness, a knock at the door alerted him to the arrival of his beverage. 

Snarling under his breath at the interruption, Ron quickly wrapped a thin sheet around his waist and got up. As he opened the door, he noticed the maid looking away with an intense blush as he took the drink and tipped her. Odd, he thought, returning to the bed and sipping his coffee gratefully. Hermione had closed her book and looked at him queerly, with one eyebrow arched and a pathetic attempt to stifle a smile.

“What is it, love?” Ron asked, the slow trickle of caffeine gently easing his headache.

“You realize how thin those sheets are, right? And the sun is coming in nice and bright through the window. You were practically prancing about on display for that poor maid.”  
“Prancing? I was just getting my coffee, I didn’t mean to traumatize her! Besides,” he added, grinning wickedly as he nonchalantly dropped the sheet, “I’m certain that she was actually quite impressed with my—”

“RONALD WEASLEY! The door is wide open, and we have neighbors!”

Shrieking, Hermione bolted up, forgetting to make her own self modest in her rush to slam the door shut. Cackling with glee, Ron grabbed her and swept her up in the air before shutting the door swiftly. Ignoring her playful kicks and punches at his face, he pinned her against it, using one hand to hold up her wrists as he ran his other hand down her back. Hearing some flustered spitting noises coming from Hermione, he carefully moved her long, tangled hair away from her face and mouth, giving her some air to speak.

“I know we agreed to cover every inch of the hotel room, but this isn’t exactly the most soundproof location.”

In response he grabbed a pillow that had fallen onto the floor in their skirmish and sandwiched it between Hermione’s face and the door. “There you go, Your Highness,” he whispered in her ear as she gave her bottom a sharp slap. A muffled yelp met his ears, but not of displeasure. Her cry gave way to soft, wanting moans as Ron continued his torturous teasing from earlier.

“I think the only place we haven’t done yet is the sink,” Hermione gasped, pressing her backside against Ron’s growing cock menacingly to finish him off first.

“Actually, about that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a while to post! I had a bit of difficulty with inspiration for this one, as this chapter is the awkward middle child between the relentless passion of early on in the honeymoon and the equally-intense swan song to this work (which I have blueprinted extensively).


	6. Take a Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before leaving the bubble of bliss that was their honeymoon for home, Hermione and Ron have a moment of happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, sweet, and fluffy. One chapter left!

Even mystics in the throes of ecstasy must return to Earth; so Hermione was forced to remind herself on their final day in Madrid. Their brief, glorious honeymoon had come to an end, and the young couple had little time to explore the rest of the city or carouse amongst the gardens. There was packing to do, and their entire room had to be cleaned and scrubbed due to the hotel’s strict policies for foreign visitors and the damage caused by their gratuitous escapades. After several hours of cleaning, Muggle-styled (“Ron, you know we can’t risk a maid walking in and seeing objects in mid-air), Ron and Hermione made their way over to the train station. 

They arrived early in the afternoon to grab a bite to eat, and to have a few moments of rest before boarding. The train was not to come for another two hours, so Hermione used this time to finish Nature Notes. Ron passed the time with equal prudence, swatting at pigeons who came after his sandwich and cursing the heat. The station was quite empty that day, as it was a holiday and few felt like galivanting about Spain in the disgusting, sticky heat. Ron didn’t blame them. He himself didn’t felt like moving much either, as his wife’s legs were rested comfortably on his lap. Seeing her beginning to slump into an awkward position, he grabbed their travel knapsack and placed it behind her back, allowing her to read against the arm of the bench they were sitting on while simultaneously stretching on him.

“Greatest buy on this honeymoon, am I right?”

“Yes, that and the book,” Hermione responded, groaning gently as Ron massaged a tight knot in her calves. After Ron’s “near-death experience” (in his words), they had bought that small knapsack to carry around water thermoses at all times, kept cold by some strange Muggle technology he could never hope to understand. It also allowed him to get a good angle of his wife as she read, and Ron relished watching her eyelids slowly droop shut and her lips part lethargically.

Before reaching the final pages, Hermione had dozed off, the book gently resting on her chest. She had exerted the most effort in ensuring that the hotel room was completely clean, and thus was the first victim of post-honeymoon slump. Ron smiled as he watched her sleep. It was wonderful to see her finally relaxed, as the last few days had been unusually strenuous. They had fought at least four times in the last three days, as news from Hermione’s work made her eager to terminate the honeymoon prematurely. However, Ron insisted that “house elves can wait, and it’s not like it’s healthy to carry the welfare of all of the wizarding world on your shoulders.” Being the tenacious and dedicated social justice champion she was, Hermione naturally did not take kindly to his encouraging her to let go. But now she was finally at peace. The Ministry-wide reform agendas she had in the works could wait for a few days.

Half an hour before the train rolled in, Hermione’s eyes fluttered open. Yawning, she stretched and muttered something about Shacklebolt and “his damn assistants.” So much for a day of being mentally off-the-clock.

“What time is it, love?”

“About 4:45. We still have some time, and it’s not like this particular station is known for punctuality anyway.”

“True.” She nodded, a slight grimace crossing her face. Starting yesterday she started to have random bouts of vomiting, and another wave of queasiness just hit.

“You alright, darling?”

“Yes, it’s just…” she trailed off, then looked at Ron, concerned. “Do you think I have food poisoning or something? I keep feeling suddenly ill and a bit sore in strange places.”

“I dunno. You haven’t had, like, abdominal cramps or anything?”

“Not at all,” she murmured. Her mind wandered to a different sort of abdominal cramps she was used to experiencing cyclically. They, too, have been missing, along with their normal accompaniments. Still tired, she shook her head, strands of hair tumbling out of the makeshift bun on her head. “I’m going to splash some cold water on my face, perhaps that will help.” 

She stood up and made her way to the station’s washroom, and Ron followed her in case he needed to dart in and help clean her up. Last night’s episode was fairly brutal, as an innocuous omelet had reduced her to a sniveling mess in a fetal position on the floor. Moments later, she exited the washroom, beaming and her eyes filled with tears.

“Did you get sick?”

“No, I’m…I’m okay now. The nausea went away,” Hermione said slowly. She gazed at Ron in adoration and took his hands, kissing them. “There’s something I have to tell you.” She then dropped one of his hands, bringing the other to her stomach. The meat of his palm rested on her abdomen, rising and falling with her breath. 

“Are you…is that why…?” Ron stammered, eyes bulging in disbelief. His head was dizzy with the revelation, and he licked his lips, struggling not to burst with the sudden torrent of emotions flooding him.

A tear slid down Hermione’s face. Her own emotions allowed themselves to flow out freely, engulfing them both in a mist of joy, an island isolated from the rest of the world. “Yes, you git. We’re going to be a mum and dad now.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. Ron eagerly returned her kiss, his own tears spilling out onto her already-soaked face. They lingered for several moments—even days—in each others’ arms, allowing the world to rotate on its axis without them just for a span.

When they broke apart, Hermione sniffled and wiped her face. Her eyes were glinting with a familiar relish different from her tears. “How much time do we have left?”

“Twelve minutes.”

“Let’s celebrate,” she whispered, before hastily pulling him into the washroom with her.


	7. Stolen Corners of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fuck in a bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The summary is pretty self-explanatory. A little bit of D/s is mixed in with this one, just as a heads-up to you more vanilla readers out there. Thank you all for embarking on this weird and wonderful journey with me, especially to you who have made it this far; this was actually my very first fanfiction as well as my first time writing erotica, and thus was a unique writing challenge for me. If called feel free to leave feedback on what worked/didn't work for you as well, as I strive to improve my writing continuously. I have another Harry Potter smut-fest in the works as well (this time with our other power couple), so stay tuned for more!

“W-where are we going?” Ron spluttered, astonished by Hermione’s sudden and unexplained gusto. Without saying a word, she pulled him into a stall at the far end of the washroom, casting a quick muffling spell on the door after slamming it shut. She then clutched Ron’s face in her hands and kissed him hungrily, her lips crushed against his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. Closing his eyes and pulling her against him, he eagerly returned her passionate embraces, his back hitting the wall hard. Ignoring the pain, he relished the warmth of her face as she buried herself into his chest, her hot breath and her sweet tongue as she left him intoxicated.

Allowing her to breathe between kisses, Ron gently broke away from her and took her face in his hands. The tips of his thumbs slid into her mouth, resting on her bottom lip. Parting them, Hermione let out a weak, ragged gasp, savoring the delicious pressure of Ron’s hands forcing her mouth open. 

“I told you this would work out, darling,” Ron murmured tenderly, gazing into her eyes tenderly. Through the film of lust beginning to coat his face, soft tears of intense joy peaked through, occasionally splashing downward into Hermione’s own gaze. Unspent years of sheer love and adoration finally come to fruition poured into her, the beauty of his worshipping glance combined with the firm grip he held on her jaw making her weak in the knees. They lingered, undertones of power play intertwining with the irrepressible giddiness of two soon-to-be parents. 

Ron slid onto the floor of the washroom stall, himself overwhelmed by the wordless exchange. Hermione joined him, spreading her knees apart to press her torso flush against his. She clumsily began to undo his pants, and he her jacket, leaving her thin blouse on to provide enough electric friction for his caresses (and as not to scar any unsuspecting Muggle if the lock were to fail). As he undid each torturous button on her blazer, he used his left hand to press his thumb against the jugular vein on her neck. Hermione leaned her neck into the touch, the pounding in her throat growing louder in both of their ears. 

Once she had discreetly disposed of her knickers, Hermione took Ron’s head between her hands and met his eyes. More wordless need passed between them before she slid her tongue deftly between his lips, coaxing his own to respond. Taking her husband’s hands that had begun to stroke her breasts, she redirected them to the sides of her face, sliding his thumbs back into her mouth as she broke the kiss. 

For the next few millennia she rode him in that small, stolen corner of the world: a stall in Spain intended for countless lovers and countless more singles to experience surprising gifts the body has to offer. In those moments Ron savored the small gasps and slight choking sounds she made as he slid his thumbs further in, stretching slightly the sides of her mouth. Eyes tearing up from the pressure, Hermione urged his hands onward in their mission as she worked to bring him to completion. Stars whirled in dizzying array about her as she came, the intensity of Ron’s grip bringing her along as much as the feel of him inside her. 

At last, the long nights of the pleasure millennia ended, and both lovers, sated, exhausted, overjoyed, slumped on the floor, bodies entangled so it was impossible to tell where one limb ended and the other body began. Lucky for them, the washroom was deserted, as Ron’s legs noticeably stuck out at odd angles out of the confines of the stall. The roar of an incoming train finally roused them from their reverie, and they hastily buttoned and cleaned themselves. Helping Hermione up carefully, Ron led her weak-kneed form to the boarding platform.

Tickets were dealt, and bodies were mechanically seated in the cramped, confined benches. Not a word was spoken between the couple on the ride back, compared to their amorous liaisons on the trip to Madrid. Instead, Ron and Hermione fell asleep in each other’s arms, his head resting on her shoulder as her own face rested on the windowsill of the carriage. Within the circle of their embrace lay the promised child, who in time was to enter into a life as passionate and wildly uncertain as those of its lover parents.


End file.
